


careful fear, and dead devotion

by visiblemarket



Series: Tumblr Prompts [14]
Category: Constantine (TV)
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, First Time, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, another late summer of id fic entrant, crygasm-ing, daddy kink ish but like is it, implausible refractory periods but, implied emotional messiness, quick suicidal ideation ref in the second chapter, they're both so DUMB you don't, they're young ok it's plausible maybe, understand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 07:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21249593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: "Should know better, mate.”“Better than what?”“Better than to feed a stray. No one around to teach you that, eh?” John lifts his head, and looks him in the eye. “You’ll never get rid of them, after.”“You’re not a stray."“Mm,” John says, and settles back on Chas’s chest. “‘course I am.  And you are, too.”





	1. the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame

**Author's Note:**

> this is my 30th constantine (tv) fic, idk what that's worth but -- here we are

“Are you…” a kiss to the back of John's neck, fervent and wet, more than a little guilty; the thrusts of his hips don’t stop, but they do slow, to a wrenching, unsteady rhythm. “Are you okay? Am I…” another kiss, and a soft, snuffling sound by John’s ear. “Am I hurting you?" 

“Mm,” John says, thrusting back against him; it’s like riding a fucking beer bottle, thick and rigid and filling him almost to bursting. He won’t be able to _sit_, much less walk straight, for a week. “_Yeah_,” he groans, earnestly.

A sharp intake of breath behind him, the rush of air cool against John's fevered skin, and stillness. The big hands grasp at John’s waist, rough enough that John winces; the pressure eases, and the warm, solid weight of the body behind John lightens. Bloody hell, he’s pulling back, he’s going to—

“Didn’t…tell you to…fucking..._stop_,” John grits out, leaning back, trying to follow him. 

“John—"

“_Please,_” John whimpers, shameless and panicking. “Please, daddy. Fuck me. Love feeling you inside of me. _Christ_, it’s so bloody good, I—“ he moans, loud and enthusiastic, as the hard cock pushes back inside of him. “Yes, _yes_, thank you, daddy, that’s—“ a hand snakes around his waist and grabs at his erection, gives him a couple of quick, rough pumps. John chokes at the sensation — intense, _painful_ pleasure, getting wanked off and properly, thoroughly fucked at the same time. He can feel the tears welling in his eyes, and pitches forward, pressing his face into the pillow — the single pillow, _C_hrist, a true bachelor — and exhales, sharp.

The soft, concerned kisses peppering his shoulders, the light, careful requests for reassurances that he’s all right continue, and John would roll his eyes, if he could. 

He bears down instead, and the words stop, fade into heavy panting, as his hips snap up even faster, fucking John deeper and harder, almost brutal except for the way he’s careful not to loose his rhythm on John’s cock. He grunts, a low, filthy sound, and buries his face between John’s shoulder blades. Comes hard, digging the fingers of his left hand into John’s hip and hauling him back, thrusting his cock as far inside John’s body as it can possibly get. The sheer massive force of him topples John over, flat against the bed, face pressed into the pillow, cock pinned between his belly and the mattress. 

He can’t move — he can’t breath — he can’t _think_, like that. Every inch of him is humming with agony, desperate to be touched again, taken care of. He whimpers, muffling a sob into the pillow, and the weight against him eases instantly. 

John squirms as the softening cock slips from his arse; it’s painful, and not pleasantly so, just leaves him aching for the fullness-fueled endorphin rush of before. He manages to rub up against the mattress once, twice, and then there’s a hand around his hip, and he’s being flipped over, onto his back. 

“Oof,” he manages, before there’s a warm, wet mouth around his cock.

It’s hardly the best blow job he’s ever had, but at this point, it doesn’t need to be — there’s more enthusiasm than practiced ease, to be sure, but also just enough of a quick rhythm and steady suction. Strong, broad arms pin John’s thighs flat against the mattress, keep him from thrusting up properly; he twists his fingers in the sheets, throws his head back. He comes with his back bowed and eyes shut, pulsing desperately into that warm, wet mouth.

There’s a sputtering sound, as if that hadn’t been anticipated — maybe John should’ve warned him, too bloody late for that now — and a loud gulp. 

“Don’t—don’t bother with it if you—oh,” John mumbles, falling back against the bed as the suction resumes, complete with slow, careful licks around the shaft of his softening cock. It’s too much, it’s not even particularly good, just _intense_, burning through every nerve ending. Chest heaving, back arching, and yet it’s still a surprise when John comes again, dry and painful, with another sharp yelp of, “_Oh_." 

He pulls off instantly after that, breathing hard, dropping his head against John’s left thigh. His hair is like silk against John’s skin — smooth and cool — and John finds himself threading his fingers through it, murmuring _please, please_, without really knowing what he’s asking for.

A warm, solid body on top of him again is what he gets — a long, deep kiss that John can taste himself in, a smooth, broad back to run his hands over, dig his nails into. 

He flinches, but doesn't complain — keeps kissing John, pinning him down and running fervent fingers through John's hair. Rubbing up against John's belly — cock half-hard again, skidding against John's skin almost thoughtlessly, condom long gone. It's the least controlled he's been since they started, and John grins — leans up into the kiss, sucks at his tongue, ignores the ache of exhaustion for just a second more. Reaches down between them; his cock practically surges into John's hand, thick and hot and pumping steadily between the ring of John's fingers. 

"C'mon, daddy," he mumbles. "Come on me. I wanna..." John tightens his grip, keeps stroking. "Wanna feel you.”

Which is all it takes, apparently: he stiffens and stills, come spilling over John’s fingers and streaking John’s chest. 

A breath between them, and another. 

John wipes his hand off on the sheets.

The weight against his chest eases.

“God, you’re a mess,” he says, looking down at John with soft, sad eyes. 

John yawns. 

He’s not wrong: sweat-soaked, fucked out and sore, too tired to move. Of course there’s the chance he meant _emotionally_, but — well, there’s not much to be done about that, comparatively. 

“Clean me up, then, mate,” John murmurs, peering up a him through heavy eyelashes. 

A chuckle, a rustle of blankets, and a genuine attempt to do so — he rises from the bed, affording John a more than decent view of his arse (decent, if unexceptional compared to his cock and broad back), and heads to what John can safely assume to be the bathroom. 

“Oi!”

He turns around. “Yeah?”

Fuck, the sheer bloody size of him, when he’s not even hard — John’s mouth goes a little dry, and he drops his gaze. 

“Toss me my jacket,” John demands, too flustered to even feign politeness, and gets it flung at his head. “Ta,” he says, only slightly sarcastic, as he retrieves the cigarette pack and his lighter. Lights one — fingers trembling, just a bit — and smirks at the look that earns him. “You mind?” John says, taking a slow, seductive — or so he hopes — drag. Coughs a bit on the exhale.

The man rolls his eyes, and shrugs — _lost cause_, he seems to realize — then turns away, resuming his journey to the bathroom. John sits up a bit — wincing — and takes another drag. Settling himself, as much as he can. 

“You okay?”

John looks up at him — he’s pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, and has a damp flannel in hand. _Predictable_, John thinks, but doesn’t have it in him to be annoyed.

He kneels next to John, and presses the warm cloth against John’s belly. 

John flinches.

“Too hot?”

“No,” John mumbles, as he’s cleaned off, because it’s just hot enough, apparently — hot enough to have his cock twitching again, from wanting that warm cloth and steady hand round him. “No, s’all right.” Takes another drag, to keep himself from grabbing at his wrist and pushing his hand further down. Looks around as he does. “Wouldn’t happen to have an ashtray, would you?”

A sigh, and he’s up off the bed again — the last thing John wanted, though maybe it’s for the best. John goes to work, cleaning up the rest — his chest and legs, his half-hard cock — and takes a few more deep, steadying breaths.

“Here,” he says, returning with a small plate, which he sets down on the table next to John. 

“You don’t smoke?” John says. 

The man shrugs. “Not really.”

John taps off some ash. “Sometimes, though?” 

A sigh. "Sometimes.” He looks at John again, and sits down next to him. “_Are_ you okay?”

John takes a drag. “Why’d you ask?”

He hesitates for a moment — John sees the uncertain twitch of his hand, the quick glances at John’s face, then his lap, then John’s face again. Reaches out, decision seemingly made, and gently runs his fingers down John’s cheek. Tracing the still damp and apparently still obvious tracks John’d forgotten to wipe off. 

“Oh,” John tries not to panic. “Happens sometimes,” most times, but he doesn’t need to know it. “Just with the — endorphins and all that.”

“Is that why you like it from behind?”

John raises his eyebrows. “Bit personal, mate.”

“I was — literally just inside you,” he points out. “You just — _you came in my mouth_.”

John has to concede that point. “Right,” he shrugs. “Well. Like it a lot of — lot of different ways. How ‘bout you?”

“How about me what?”

“How d’you like it?”

A quick blush spreads across his cheeks and he ducks his head. “I — normal. Normal ways. I…” he tapers off, and then shrugs. 

John takes another drag. _Interesting_.

(“_I don’t — I mean — I usually — with — women?” he’d mumbled, shy in the face of John’s half-arsed at seduction._

_“So do I, mate,” John had said, which was true, and then pushed him onto the bed. “But you’re_ special.” )

He’s looking at John again.

John raises his eyebrows, and exhales. _“_Yes?” 

“Can I—can I ask you a question?"

“‘course."

“Was that okay? I’ve never—I mean I don’t usually…” he blushes. 

Truly a terrible liar, then, but John likes that in a man. He stubs out his cigarette, and reaches out. Runs a hand though his hair, and pulls him closer in the process.

“Glorious,” John says, fluttering his eyelashes. “The earth moved, an’ all that."

Another blush. It’s a rather charming look on him, for all that he’s not terribly handsome on his own. 

“And all that…” his eyes drop, focusing on John’s chest, apparently. His hand rubs up and down along John’s arm. “The…d—daddy stuff. That just ‘cause you couldn’t remember my name?"

“That’s two questions, mate.” 

He looks up at John, who winks. “Of course I remember your name,” John says, buying some time. Getting a good, solid look at him, as he raises his eyebrows in somewhat amused disbelief. “Charles?" 

He laughs. “Close.” 

“Yeah?” says John, a bit impressed with himself, frankly.

“Francis."

“Oh, fuck off,” John groans, as apparently-Francis leans in to snicker into his shoulder, and then presses a kiss to the side of John’s neck. 

“My friends call me Chas.” 

John has to laugh, even as he pushes at his chest. “Oh, so you’re a _proper_ wanker, aren’t you?”

Chas pulls back again, smirking. “Apparently,” he says, dry, and drops his gaze to John’s lap. 

John snorts. Can’t help himself, for all that he knows he should: this is what it is, and he shouldn’t let Chas — it’s a good name, he thinks, it suits him — shouldn’t let Chas think otherwise.

“Can I?” 

Chas’s brow furrows. “Can you what?"

“Can I call you Chas?”

He — blushes, _again_, for reasons John can’t quite fathom. “If you want,” he mumbles, and — leans in. Kisses John, open mouthed, a little desperate, setting his heart pounding again. Eases him onto his back, covering John’s body with his own. 

He’s hard — John can feel it through the sheet, rubs up against it automatically. Feels his own cock stir and twitch, over-sensitive, against his own stomach.

“John,” Chas breaths, dropping his mouth to John’s throat. John wraps a leg around his waist and pulls him closer.

“Chas,” he answers, running desperate fingers through his dark hair.

* 

They’re done again, too tired to clean up this time, face to face as their breaths settle, and Chas smiles at him — soft, and a little sad. 

“You gonna run off on me now?” he murmurs, sounding half-asleep, and strokes gently at John's back. 

He could. 

A part of him wants to. But his arse aches, and it’s a cold night, and he’s got no where else to go. He looks into Chas’s eyes: they’re hazel-green, which surely he must’ve noticed before, but wouldn’t’ve been able to remember.

“Dunno,” John says, nuzzling his cheek against the shared pillow. “You throwin’ me out?"

“Of course not.” Chas says, and leans in. _Christ_, he’s going to try to kiss him again — John’s all right with kissing, generally, likes it as much as the next bloke, unless the next bloke is Chas, who goes all in for it, all tongue and teeth and full-bodied commitment to breath-sharing intimacy. 

_Ah, well_. In exchange for a warm bed and a thorough — if inelegant — fuck, he could do a lot worse. 

*


	2. kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving

“Oi! Chandler!” shouts Joe, loud enough to be heard across the bar. “Your mate's back again.” 

_What mate?_ Chas doesn’t say, but looks around. Why, he couldn’t say — which of the few friends he’s got is going to come looking for him _here_, after all — but look around he does, and still can’t figure who it is Joe means. He throws him a look, and gives a quizzical shrug.

“Your mate. Skinny blond scouser prick?” Joe scowls, and nods toward the back tables. “Made him pay up front this time, but he’s not ordered anythin’ since. Taken up a perfectly good table, he is.”

_Fuck_, Chas thinks, but nods and walks over toward the corner booth. Can’t believe he hadn’t noticed before: who else, after all, would be so artfully slumped over and impossible to ignore. 

“Hey,” he says, kicking lightly at John’s leg. “You gonna order something else?”

John jolts up. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, hiya,” he says, fixing Chas with a long, dark-eyed stare. “There you are.”

As if he’s surprised. As if he’s been looking for Chas all over, and had not ditched him the morning after, taking about twenty pounds from Chas’s wallet with him when he went. As if he hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth for two weeks since then.

Not that it bothers Chas — he’d expected about as much, from John. Had known his reputation, and had taken the chance anyway, giving in to the strange, sweet rush of being wanted. 

“If you’re not getting anything else you’ve gotta go.”

“_What_ a way to talk to a mate, _mate_,” John says, cocking his head. His pupils, Chas can’t help but notice, are huge. 

“I’m not—“

"You _said," _John holds up his hand, and counts off on a finger. “That I could call you Chas.”

“You can—“

“Said your _friends_ call you Chas,” he counts on another. 

“John—“

“By my calculations then, mate, gotta say it seems like—“

”Are you high?" 

”Mmmm, well," John drawls. “_Who’s_ to say?" sing song and grating, before bursting into laughter. 

Chas sighs. ”Yeah, a real mystery,” he says.

John huffs. "You gonna throw me out for that?"

“I could.” He won't. "Why are you here, John?"

“Wanted to see you,” he throws out, like it’s obvious. "Why are you here?"

"I work here."

John rolls his eyes. "Not what I meant, you numpty."

Chas doesn’t even want to know. "What did you mean?" 

"Here," says John, expansively, waving his arms. Catches sight of the flag hanging behind the bar, and points at it, almost throwing himself off the bench in the process. "In _London_,_”_ he adds, suddenly exasperated.

"Why are _you_?" he says, defensive, entirely aware it makes no sense as a response. Hopeful John's too out of it to notice. 

John points a finger at him, presses his lips together. Shakes his head, laughs a bit. Reaches up to pluck the cigarette he’s left behind his ear, and flicks his lighter open.

"You can't—“

“Give it a rest, Chas,” he says, snapping his lighter shut and taking a drag. Chas sighs. "I’m here 'cause if I’d stayed in Liverpool I’d've killed myself, and this's as far as I got on my _charm_ and the kindness of others. Woulda crossed an ocean if I’d had the chance, I s'ppose." 

Chas sighs. Slides into the other side of the booth, looks John in the eye.

“My mother's not a good person," he says, wincing at the understatement. "Crossing an ocean was as good a plan as any."

John cocks his head, takes another drag of his cigarette. "Seems a bit extreme."

"You haven’t met my mother."

"Hm," John hums, thoughtful and almost amused. He smiles a little, that closed-mouth, slightly bitter smile Chas recognizes but isn't able to parse yet. "My mum died when I was born. Father's your average sort of bastard, and a drunk to boot."

"Mine died when I was a kid." Fell down the stairs. An accident, or close enough. "I don’t really remember him." The majority of his childhood is like that — memories warp and fade as if around a black hole. 

John huffs, and reaches over across the table, cigarette in hand. "What a pair we are," he says, shaking his head, as Chas takes a drag. "Make one proper orphan between us, eh?" 

"Might’ve been better off an orphan," Chas says, passing the cigarette back. John laughs, and reaches for his almost empty glass. 

"Well, cheers to that," he says, and drains it. 

"Why are you here, John?” he asks again, softer.

"Dunno," John says, shrugging again. "Nowhere else to go, I s'ppose.”

“Everybody’s gotta be somewhere,” Chas quips.

John blinks at him, curious. “What’s that?”

“It’s — it's an old joke,” he says, then shakes his head. Concerned, in spite of himself. "You really don’t have a place? A...a flat or something?" 

John smirks. "Did for a bit. Got kicked out. Sort of."

Of course he did. Chas sighs, and John laughs, taking another drag from his cigarette. 

"You takin' me home or not, mate?" he says, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. 

Chas shuts his eyes and shakes his head. "I’m done in half an hour," he says, opening his eyes and rising from the booth. 

"Be right here when you’re ready!" John calls out, and Chas waves behind him, but doesn’t look back.

* 

John's slumped over on the table when Chas returns, seemingly asleep. Chas reaches out — resists the temptation to stroke his messy blond hair, rests a hand on his shoulder instead.

John stiffens and jerks back, shoving Chas's hand away. Blinks, and swallows, shaking his head.

"Sorry," he mumbles, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth. 

"It’s okay," Chas says, softly, and John grimaces. 

"Time's it?"

"Quarter past two," Chas says. 

"You’re late," says John, scowling.

"They wanted me to take out the trash," he says, suddenly wary. "I’m heading out. Did you still—"

“Yeah, all right," he slurs. “If you insist."

*

John flops down on his bed as if he owns it, and Chas — lets him. Can’t think of what else to do. He’ll probably just go straight to sleep, which is fine. 

Chas’d get down to his undershirt and boxers, normally, but he’s not going to do that with John here — not _now,_ like this, when John’s still fully clothed and apparently asleep already. Chas shakes his head again — rolls his eyes, for no one’s benefit but his own — and lies down. There’s not much room on the bed, but at least there’s enough to keep from touching him.

Not that it matters: John turns toward him instantly, resting his head on Chas’s shoulder, draping his arm over Chas’s chest. 

Chas sighs, and slides his arm around John’s body, curls it up across John’s back. Strokes at John’s spine, and — god help him — kisses the top of his head. 

“Mm,” John mumbles. “Good ol’ Chas." 

It’s not a compliment — Chas can tell — but it doesn’t quite feel like a dig.

“So bloody predictable, you are,” John continues, and then shakes his head. "Should know better, mate.”

“Better than what?”

“Better than to feed a stray. No one around to teach you that, eh?” John lifts his head, and looks him in the eye. “You’ll never get rid of them, after.”

“You’re not a stray." 

“Mm,” John says, and settles back on Chas’s chest. “‘course I am. And you are, too.”

“I haven’t fed you.” He’d thought about it — he’d noticed John, long before John’d noticed him, long before he’d settled for Chas after a long night of striking out with everyone else. Seen John without his jacket, sometimes, seen how slight his frame was, how his ribs strained against his skin. Seen him so frantic and angry, buzzing with annoyance or excitement, making himself bigger, taking up more space, but Chas _knows_ him, now: knows how small he seems, when he’s still. Knows that he cries when he comes, and clings to whatever he can when he sleeps, and whimpers when he dreams. 

And Chas knows that what he needs — what most people need, but none he’s met as much as John — is a warm meal, bed, and body to come home to. It could be anyone’s, Chas realizes: he's not an idiot, and he’s not special for having John Constantine fall asleep on top of him. But he's _there_, and so is John, and that has to mean something, surely. 

John lets out a low, content sigh, and nuzzles into Chas's chest. His breaths even out, and what little tension was left in his body eases. 

Chas lets himself run his fingers through John’s hair, and takes a slow, careful breath of his own.

Maybe John’ll stay the night.

Maybe they’ll wake up together, tangled in each other, and make each other come. He’ll be able to kiss John again, and make him breakfast, and maybe, Chas thinks — hopes — maybe that'll be enough. 

*

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from [here](https://genius.com/The-national-dont-swallow-the-cap-lyrics); chapter titles from #4 [here](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/22/little-beast-crush-by-richard-siken/)
> 
> (by my estimation john is like 19/20 in this fic and chas is 22/23. they both think they know everything. they, in fact, do not.)


End file.
